44. Nina
44
NINA
Maximo shoves and locks me into an office next door.
A sob rips from my throat. Wesley has killed people. He hunted them. My stomach turns as I realize that the same hands that caressed me had taken lives.
Had he strangled someone the way Anton Robert tried with me?
I touch my neck with trembling fingers, shutting my eyes as tears escape.
But all I can picture is how attentive he was to me that night. The necklace, my hair pins, washing my hair, playing a card game.
That’s my Wesley.
I trust him. The pleading in his eyes before Maximo took me away was genuine. He is genuine. I hold my hand against my stomach and steady my breath.
I can’t stay here and let them torture Wesley. The thought of him getting any more scars fills me with rage.
The room has a tiny window and a desk with a jacket strewn over the arm of a small couch. I scan the room for an idea—anything—that might help us. Arlo said to put me next door, and we only walked about a hundred feet down the hallway. I crank open the window only to see nothing between the ledge and concrete five floors below. With a huff, I shut the window and empty my crossbody bag onto the desk. Hand lotion, hand sanitizer, a lighter, a hair tie, my wallet, and a bracelet. I bought the lighter and bracelet at a souvenir shop; the former is probably more helpful here.
I need a distraction and a way to get to Wesley. I could try to unlock the door with the bobby pin, but I know nothing about picking locks. The lighter could be useful; do I really want to set a fire? I glance around the office again. It’s not abandoned; someone works in here at least sporadically. There’s a mug, a cup of pens, and a notepad. I yank open the drawers to find sticky notes, more pens, an empty stapler, and—jackpot. Literally. I pull out a bottle of half-empty Jack Daniels whisky. If I go the fire route, this will be essential.
Possible distraction, check.
Now, I need to reach Wesley.
The window isn’t an option. Is there an air duct? Hopefully one like the movies, large and sturdy and a direct path to where I need to go.
Yes, but no.
In the upper corner of the room, there’s an air duct that looks about as wide as my hips. And not an inch bigger.
“Fuck.”
It’s not screwed in, so I only have to tug it from the wall after standing on the chair. I perch as high as I can on my toes, straining my ear for any sign of other voices.
“Who was ? —”
The distant voice, followed by muffled noises, is faint but I know it’s Arlo. His extreme rasp is distinct. After slowly pushing the couch in front of the door and the desk under the duct, I tie my hair into a low bun. I climb up high and crawl into the tight space.
I hate letting any part of my skin touch a public chair or wall, and I’m shoving my entire body into a building’s air duct that likely hasn’t been cleaned in years and has dead bugs—or worse—inside.
A shudder runs through me as the space gets tighter. Go someplace else. Picture somewhere new. As I wiggle ahead toward the voices, I squint and pretend I’m under a blanket. A really large fucking blanket. Sparks slice up my core as panic strikes. I can’t.
Not here.
I pause and shut my eyes, flicking back to my night with Wesley. My breath staggers in my chest. It was more than the sex. It was the comfort that wrapped around my heart from knowing I’m loved.
But the quick, cutting reminder of what Arlo is doing to Wesley urges me ahead. Anger is a much better motivator.
After ten minutes of wiggling, I finally reach the room where Wesley is. I passed a couple of suspicious… things on the way—a dead roach or something alike—but I closed my eyes each time. There’s an alcove in the duct that reveals Wesley, Arlo, and Maximo below.
“You want this over with, I want this other with. Tell me who killed Santiago.”
Wesley says nothing. Maximo winds back and punches him across the face. In the stomach. In the chest. I squeeze my eyes shut and fight the sob threatening to release at the sounds of Wesley’s labored breathing.
Behind my eyelids, I see the evening we spent at his grandparents’ house. I see him staring back at me, promising that no one would ever hurt me again. The invasive sounds of flesh punching flesh blur the memories. Wesley coughs, struggling to catch his breath. I hear Arlo chuckle.
“Following you the past month was fun,” Arlo says. “Watching you fall in love with the woman you’re supposed to protect. Tricking yourself into thinking it could last. You’re ex-communicado. A shunned soldier. What was it Santi said to me? Ah.” He lowers in front of Wesley. “He’s useful for one thing. Killing who I tell him to. It’s interesting. Everyone says you’re the deadliest man there is, but all I watched you do is hold Miss Laffley’s purse and look at her like she’s the eighth wonder of the world.” He leans closer. “Tell me who shot my brother so I don’t have to kill her the same way.”
Wesley lifts his head and spits in the man’s face. Apprehension curls inside me. Maximo drags a blade across Wesley’s chest, his agonizing grunts echoing through the room. I clamp a hand over my mouth, gritting my teeth.
This second, nothing is stopping them. I’m powerless, just like I was the night Anton attacked me. My gut twists painfully. No. I refuse to be that person again.
With a steadying breath, I creep back through the ducts. It creaks with every inch. My hands sweat and tremble through the time it takes me to return.
I take long, deep breaths when I reach the office again. My head spins, and I grip the desk to control my breathing. I don’t do this stuff. This spy shit. Arson . But as I chastise myself, I snatch the trashcan and start shredding and balling up the notebook paper. I dump in every flammable thing I can find.
Not only am I setting fire to a room I’m locked into, but I’ll then proceed to crawl through air ducts that I can only pray won’t collapse under my weight and trap me in a building I set fire to.
No pressure.
I set the trashcan on the couch so the fire could latch onto something big. I pour the remainder of the Jack Daniels in the can and fling a few drops on the cushions. People could get hurt. People could die . The sound of Wesley’s pain burns into my mind. The cryptic threat of whether Maximo will kill me is haunting.
What other choice do I have?
I roll up a sheet of paper and set the end on fire. The other items burst into flames when I drop it into the trashcan. No time to waste. I crawl back into the duct with the sounds of crackling following me. By the time I return to Wesley, the fire alarm goes off. I cry out at the echoing siren piercing my eardrums. Maximo and Arlo leave to investigate.
After twisting at an awkward angle, I kick the grate from the wall and slide through, my skin painfully scraping against the edges. I drop and push back to land on my butt as air pushes back into my lungs. The alarm continues blaring. I scramble to my feet and snatch a knife from the table, slicing it through the binds around Wesley’s wrists. Tears well in my eyes when I lower in front of his bloodied and bruised body.
“Wesley,” I plead, dropping the weapon and taking his face in both hands. “Wake up.” I brush over his swollen brow, my heart pounding in my throat.
His eyes flutter as he comes to. “Wha—Nina? What happened?”
“I had to do something.”
Wesley pinches the bridge of his nose as he gets a hold of himself. “No, you should’ve run?—”
“It’s done now.” I hand him the knife. “Get us out of here.”